Poor Judgment, Anderson
by pennydreddful
Summary: I found this again; before I fully settled on my Manderson arc (Without Fear or Favour is my actual Dredd story) apparently I wrote a totally PWP Cassandra Anderson and Dredd fic. Grud forgive me.


Anderson is seething because she doesn't think he's being appropriately reverent (ever) but he's done this too many times to pause and he hasn't done what he's about to do (ever). When his hand hits her back and pulls, she's stunned but the implicit trust is still there enough to not strike. So when he kisses her, helmet painfully bumping her nose, all she does is spit out, "Dredd, what the fuck?!"

He's definitely unsure but extremely tentative and above all, truly abhors verbosity. So, he tries it again. Anderson receives it with a soft oh, and then a comprehending OH. She mentally tries to gauge his expression, but uninterested in doing it the tedious way since he's dispensed with that route too, goes to shove his helmet upward.

He barks a command at the lights control and she frowns but is undaunted. He places larger, gloved hands over hers, unclasps it, and eagerly tosses it to the floor. One astoundingly (for him) fluid movement and he's pushed her back against the row of lockers, starting over at the junction of her ear, neck, and jaw. With his slightly chapped, full mouth working over her, all her concentration flows directly to her crotch and she starts to tug on his uniform. He's amazingly already stepped out of his boots and gives a compliant wriggle out of the jacket and vest. Later she'll probably reflect on the fact that his body gave the uniform it's impressive definition rather than the opposite.

Accustomed to ceding to his superior physicality in combat, she automatically bends with him when he spins with her to move her to the prep room's small, flimsy, paperwork-bearing table. A few sheets drift carelessly to the ground as he starts to unzip her boots, slide off her jacket, and unhelpfully worry at her neck while she wriggles free of her pants.

His mouth descends on her chest immediately and she twines her legs around his waist to keep him there. She's breathing beyond heavily now, not realizing how or when or why this needed to happen. She just knows that the urgent thumbs digging into her hipbones are on the outside of a scaldingly hot tongue tracing its way down and mouthing through already quite wet fabric. The table gives a warning squeak as he kneels at its edge, still teasing at her. Rising, he pushes his hands down her thighs and around to her backside, pulling her flush against him and swiveling to once again press her against the lockers. She gives a whine of protest at the loss of his mouth but cries out contentedly when he pushes her underwear to the side and slips two fingers inside of her. He flexes and curls them, hitting exactly the right spot truthfully more by luck than expertise and grimaces slightly at how her writhing against his hand has made his leathers substantially more restrictive than usual. Watching her close her eyes in bliss and allow her head to tilt back makes him speed his pace. He's rewarded by a tightening of her features, something he's seen in the field a million times but never been the cause of compels him forwards into another cautious kiss. She responds in kind and notes that it almost feels like asking for permission. It's not gentle; she's certain Dredd didn't have that mode, but it is almost respectful and halting enough that she hears herself beg.

"Now, now, please now.." She's repeating, too turned on to abide any more exploration that didn't bring completion.

He stops and haphazardly manages to get his pants just far enough off, guiding himself to her entrance and thrusting up at the same time she grinds down. It doesn't really count as speech but he murmurs something against her ear for the first time in several minutes, starting a pace that she's too impatient for. As she quickens the snap of her hips and drags her fingertips across his shoulders with no small amount of pressure, she feels his mouth seeking hers again and thinks she feels him give a slight tremor of pleasure that she realizes might be nerves. He shifts to stabilize her with one hand and brings the other to her neck, roughly pulling her closer as he moves harder and deeper within her.

Their kisses turn from tentative to open mouthed and languorous, slow heat from their quick thrusts rising in each. She takes on biting at his lower lip and sucking it into her mouth, then probing deeper to do the same to his tongue. There's a sound in the back of his throat and he bows his back forward, their balance now completely dependent on the lockers and not at all on his legs. He hadn't stopped to remove her bra earlier, but still the friction of his chest on hers is wonderful and she claws at his neck and back, feeling his skin erupt into goosebumps wherever her nails found purchase. She's trying not to analyze this but he's definitely more nakedly invested in kissing all of her and feeling all of her than just fucking her (although he made a superb effort on that front, with a surprising capacity for angle and rhythm).

His hips hitch and he breaks the kiss for want of air, resting their foreheads together as Anderson lets out a sigh punctuated by a moan, pulling him deeper with each spasm and he's following her right over. He releases a muffled cry into her shoulder that no one would ever seriously attribute to him without fearing retribution.

They stay twined for a moment, regaining breath and bumping profiles together at lazy angles, trying to kiss at whatever flesh happened to pass beneath lips. He slowly lets her down, stroking the nape of her neck when she sighs at his withdrawal. Neither seem to think this is a particularly good time to delve too deep into discussing whatever just happened, so they patiently collect their clothes and suit up as minimally as possible. They make it out to the corridor in loaded but comfortable silence and she calls into Psi-Div so they don't think she's gone missing for the night. His shadowed glance and posture seem to imply that he's not going to do his usual unceremonious stalking-away-home for the night, but waits for her to accompany him. She nods and they comfortably assume their usual side by side stride.

When they reach his quarters, he opens and closes his mouth a few times while palming open the door. He usually only goes through the sentence formulation process with a downwards quirk of his mouth that slowly progresses into that unmistakable frown. It usually results in a grunt. Anderson imagines that he at least tries to growl whatever it is in the least amount of words with maximum orneriness. Grud, all the regs they'd broken in the last few hours were probably warring inside him for expression. She watches him struggle for words for a moment with a sly smirk on her face, finally taking pity and backing him up against the door with a few intent steps.

They should talk about this, but his helmet has already hit the floor and rolled away. He's already plucked her off the ground and she's willingly folded herself around him, so the descent to the floor is welcome and uniform bits go scattering wherever they fall. He allows her to force him onto his back while they keep at each others mouths and dispose of everything obscuring flesh. Dredd's hands would be clumsy if they weren't large enough to encase part of her ribcage in his palm. Scratch that, they're pretty deliberate when they neatly rip her bra in half. So, not hesitant. Just too stubborn to admit defeat when he could smash through an obstacle. His exploration slows a bit once Anderson is naked in his lap and he looks up at her for a cue or a signal as she catches his lower lip in her teeth again. They've been groping at each other like eager teenagers for long enough that she finally lets out a soft chuckle.

Dredd being Dredd, it's the perfect cue for him to stiffen and grumpily grumble out a low "what?". Anderson is far more used to dealing with his obnoxious defensive reflexes in the field, but this time she simply tries lapping up the center of his chest. Her tongue dragging up until she lightly pecks at his chin makes him forget whatever he was gearing up to complain about and he flips her onto her back. If he was being honest, he'd admit he was totally perplexed by what to do in the whole foreplay situation because if he was REALLY honest he'd admit he'd never had anyone in this context and there were a lot of sensations battling for primacy in him at the moment. While he contemplates this, he tries to poise himself above Anderson, his length brushing her thigh.

The light from the churning city outside slants in the narrow blinds and casts a muted light on his face, just enough to catch his profile. She's used to the mouth and jaw as a set extension of the uniform, but his lips are parted now and she can discern his eyebrows gravitating together. Her eyes travel up and what she finds seems to contradict someone who clings to his helmet like he's irreparably deformed. It never once occurred to her to care because she could feel his expressions tapping at the periphery of her mind whenever she opened it. What he internalized in how he carried himself, he very seriously externalized in psychic channels he didn't even realize he was broadcasting until she would grin when she caught something.

The periodic flash of lights from passing vehicles would cast enough light into the room that she could see more of him. Anderson tilted her head and dragged her nails along his scalp. _Hazel,_ she thought, amused that after years she'd only just learned this basic identifying fact when she knew things about how he worked that would be infinitely more intimate with anyone else. She cupped his cheek and pulled him down for a slow kiss that had him slipping his fingers along her lean arms and capturing her wrists. They promptly were pinned against the rough carpet and, legs already parted beneath him, she curved her hips upward to accept him for the second time that night.

If the lockers had been a tense balancing act, this was altogether different. She'd seen what he was capable of doing to people with his bare hands; feeling his calloused fingertips dig into the delicate flesh of her wrists made her whimper and writhe, fanning out her fingers in his grasp. He released her wrists and slid his fingers in with hers, clasping and moving his other hand down her body past peaked nipples and taut muscles to grasp her thigh and use it to leverage himself. Not really the noisy type, she gives in as the angle allows him to hit the deepest points of her, crying out each time he's fully sheathed inside of her. Dredd supposes that he's making a laudable effort and lets himself fall back into kissing her intently and needfully. She returns the earnestness and takes the chance to push him back to sit on his heels, still draped over his lap and _oh_ that is exactly what she was whimpering over. His hands nearly cover her narrow back, grasping for support as she raises and lowers herself on him, strong legs helping her to grind perfectly against him. It's not long before her nails are marking his back in long stripes and she's too overwhelmed to stay upright in his lap. He intakes a harsh breath, bucking beneath her as kiss-bruised lips bloom and a deep blush spreads across her pale chest.

Gripping her right hip in his hand, he lets her fall back to the floor but remains on his knees, timing his thrusts to the shaky breaths she's drawing. The force of it eventually sends him forward to sprawl a hand against the wall behind them and he comes, shouting open-mouthed.

Anderson guides him down into her arms once his eyes reopen, stroking up his spine and coaxing him up for a long, lazy kiss. She breaks it and bumps her nose against his. "I want to see all of you," she requests quietly. Even in the half light that the blinds allow, she can see him-no, feel him do the mental equivalent of widened eyes and recoiling. He shrinks from her touch very slightly (such restraint, for him) but buries his face in her neck, a futile attempt to distract her by applying his teeth there.

"…Dredd," she tries, getting no response.

Cautiously, "Dredd…" again. Still nothing.

"Dredd!"

"Mmph," Anderson felt it through his chest.

"Come on."

"Nnmph."

"Dredd, we just-" she started, craning her head behind her and reaching an arm out for the lights.

He raised his head and looked down at her, catching her elbow in a jerky movement.

"No," sounded like a command. Anderson had a hard time taking orders. She tried to extend her arm in his grasp, squawking when his thumb and forefinger deadened the nerves they pinched.

"Fuck! What was that for?" she sat up, glaring at him and trying to punch some life back into her arm. Apparently Dredd had a hard time giving clear ones.

"I said no," he rose to retrieve some pants, crossing the tiny room in three steps and rifling around in a set of drawers conveniently hidden from the dingy, filtered light of the city street outside.

Anderson narrowed her eyes. She let the edges of her vision get that fuzzy, warbly way it did when she tried to poke at someone's mind when they weren't necessarily willing.

_Drokking idiot, _she flashed. As she swiftly re-clothed herself (with the parts that weren't shredded, she could leave those for him to trip over in the morning) she spitefully tossed the glance of his eyes she'd gotten earlier into his mind and slammed the door behind her as he spun around.

Dredd flexed and un-flexed his fists several times, tilted like he was going to stalk after her but he just stood there, looking between the door and her left behind remnants with a deepening expression of perplexity. He kept at it as if combining the flimsy door with the flimsier things on the floor would add up to some quantity explaining the last few hours.

Anderson could feel the downwards tug of his eyebrows as he puzzled, but she stomped harder on each stair. She felt resentful that now, she had s shiny drokking visual knowledge of what they looked like instead of the usual suggestion his mind would project out.


End file.
